


London's Finest

by Elfbert



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-06
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-10-15 11:03:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfbert/pseuds/Elfbert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Was previously incorrectly titled 'Always November'!)</p><p>For the prompt: His colleagues want Lestrade to be part of the Scotland Yard Nude Calender for charity. Lestrade says "HELL NO!". Who wins this one?</p><p>Watson/Lestrade UST.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Столичный патруль](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10903434) by [Kleolanda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kleolanda/pseuds/Kleolanda)



Lestrade rubbed his hand over his face, his paperwork finally done, his teams checked on, his emails read. He clicked to open his organiser for the next day, checking if he had any press conferences he should prepare for or meetings he should dread.

 

The latter, sadly, seemed to be the case. He frowned when he realised the entry had a room number and a time, but no apparent subject. He saw Donovan packing her things at her desk, and shrugging into her coat, so jumped up, shutting his laptop and grabbing his own coat from the stand by his door.

 

"Sal! There's an entry in my calendar for tomorrow, a meeting in the morning – any ideas what it is?"

 

"Oh, yeah, it's about what we're doing for charity this year. DCI Higgs said you'd help. Didn't I write that in?"

 

"Ah, okay – you get roped in too?"

 

Donovan gave him an alarmingly wide smile. "Yes, Sir."

 

It wasn't, Lestrade reflected, anything like as bad as a meeting on procedure or complaints or…well, pretty much anything else. He didn't mind spending an hour or so kicking around some ideas about parties or talent shows or whatever the in thing was at the moment. He supposed it would be some horrific pun on popular culture – the year before had been 'Cop Idol' and involved a lot of people losing a lot of dignity by squawking out pop hits in the local club. At least, he reasoned, if you were involved in the planning stages you could normally side step the embarrassing bits.

 

 

The next day he collected Donovan on his way through the office, a pad shoved under his arm for the inevitable brainstorming session, and in case he got utterly bored and needed something to do which didn't involve devising ways to kill the upper echelons of the Met.

 

"Got any ideas then?" he asked, as he led the way through the corridors.

 

"Oh, one or two, Sir," Donovan answered, and Lestrade could swear he could hear the smile in her voice.

 

 

The room was unusually full, for a preliminary meeting, and Lestrade grabbed a chair in the corner of the room, Donovan finding a place near the door. He couldn't help but notice that she kept shooting him amused looks. He surreptitiously checked his flies and that he'd buttoned his shirt up correctly that morning.

 

Finally DCI Miranda Higgs walked into the room, taking up her position at the front, a whole bundle of paperwork spilling out of the briefcase she carried.

 

"Well, fantastic to see you all here – excellent turn out, well done. COPS will thank you for this. So, after we decided what we're doing at the last meeting, the main thing to do today is decide exactly what style we're going to go for, and find days in everyone's diary when the photographer can come. Ideally we'd like to shoot everything in one day, but I know you all have unpredictable schedules."

 

Lestrade glared at Donovan, who resolutely avoided eye contact.

 

"Anyway, we'll work that out at the end – firstly we need to come to an agreement about the style we'll be working to. Of course the commissioner is very insistent this remains tasteful. I was thinking something like this."

 

She flourished _'Diux du Stade'_ , holding it up and turning it to show the room.

 

"Black and white, carefully posed – we don't want to be accused of breaching any decency laws, do we?"

 

Lestrade ripped his gaze away from the sleek, smooth muscles on display in the calendar and stared at Donovan.

 

She smiled back sweetly. "For charity, Sir. You were voted for," she called across the room.

 

Lestrade shook his head, looking away, out of the window, ignoring the clamour of voices and opinions. For charity. How could he possibly get out of doing anything for charity – bloody widows and orphans of police officers, at that - without seeming churlish?

 

 

The meeting finally ended, and Lestrade grabbed Donovan before she could slip away.

 

"How, exactly, was I 'voted for'?" he asked. "And why the bloody hell would anyone want to see me in something like that," he pointed vaguely back into the room – the room which was still full of people half his age, flicking through photos of scantily-clad men, laughing and joking about poses and outfits.

 

"You were voted for by the department," Donovan smiled. "I mean, seriously, can you imagine if Doherty were to do it? Or Geoghan?"

 

Lestrade swallowed, shaking his head, trying to work out any scheme that could get him out of the situation.

 

"I'm doing it too, Sir. It's only fair – one guy, one girl. You can't say no – not for charity," Donovan said.

 

"I…if…if I'm free, and I've got time…otherwise you'll have to find someone else. Right?"

 

Donovan smiled widely. "Of course!"

 

 

Lestrade sat at his desk, Google open on the same images as Higgs had been showing them. He couldn't deny they were beautiful, but these were rugby players – muscular, fit, young men. He settled in his chair, elbow resting on the armrest, gently biting his finger as he thought about the pros and cons of the situation.

 

He sighed, closing the browser window, and decided all he could do was hope he'd be unavailable for the shoot. Or at least, if he was forced to do it, that they'd decide he could hide behind something substantial and that his pictures wouldn't make the cut. After all, there were plenty of constables who'd probably love the chance to show off.

 

 

As the day of the photo shoot drew nearer Lestrade told himself there was no correlation between that and the fact he'd actually managed to fit in jogging every other day for the first time in over a year. Or that he'd eaten salad for lunch every day.

 

And he absolutely hadn't stood in front of the mirror that morning, wet from the shower, glad that he at least had some muscle tone left, and despite too many years behind a desk he wasn't fat – just slightly less trim than he once had been. He had supposed things could be worse.

 

 

Then his prayers were answered. A murder – and nothing too obvious. He threw himself into the case, chasing down leads, monitoring his team, filling every minute of his day. He knew the case would fill the next day, too – the day of the shoot. He was already composing the text message he'd send Donovan in his head. He treated himself to a bacon sandwich in celebration.

 

 

It was late the next day when he finally got back to the office, tired after only a few hours of sleep and in need of a shower. He ran his hand through his hair, then scrubbed it across his face, feeling the day-old stubble rough on his palm. He flopped into the chair behind his desk, bone-weary and looking forward to food, sleep and a large drink.

 

"Sir! You're just in time!"

 

Donovan was standing in the doorway, clad in only a policewoman's hat, a borrowed uniform shirt, which was far too big for her and some tracksuit bottoms.

 

"You what?" Lestrade groaned.

 

"The photographer, he's just doing David, so if you come and get ready now he can do you last." She beckoned, to add emphasis.

 

"Sal, I've been working for eighteen hours. I mean, look at me!"

 

Donovan did, then shrugged slightly. "Some people like the rough look, Sir," she grinned. "I don't think there'll be any complaints."

 

"Seriously? Christ, they won't even use the photos of me, not against all those…" he waved a hand. "Isn't there some young hunk you could go and bother?"

 

"Another hairless skinny boy?" Donovan pulled a face. "Some women, Sir, like a real man." She winked. "Some men do, too."

 

Lestrade sighed loudly.

 

"Charity, Sir," Donovan called as she walked away through the office. "We're down in the garages, if you decide not to let all those people down."

 

Lestrade kicked the bin. Then he followed her.

 

 

He supposed, he thought, as he rolled his head back, cracking his neck, and waiting for Donovan to suggest the next pose, that he could blame this all on sleep deprivation. Caffeine deprivation. Donovan's depravity. He heard the shutter on the camera clicking and jumped, looking back towards the young blond man behind it.

 

"Sorry," he muttered. "Wasn't ready."

 

"No, it's better, catching you more natural, like," the man said. "Too many of them earlier were acting more like they were in a bodybuilding competition than being photographed – pulling stupid poses, dicking about – no pun intended, like."

 

Lestrade nodded, not particularly wanting to hear about his subordinate's efforts to be the next PlayGirl centrefold. He just wanted to get rid of the stupid gear Donovan had insisted on and go home. He couldn't even be bothered to be embarrassed.

 

"Just a few more – put your foot down, adjust the belt slightly, I can just see a bit of the jockstrap."

 

Lestrade obeyed, sliding his thumb between the belt and his skin, pushing it down slightly as he lifted his other arm and rubbed his face against the cold skin in the crook of his elbow, trying to clear the sleep from his eyes, to wake himself up.

 

"All right, think we've got some good stuff there. I'll have to let you know what makes the cut – think your DCI's picking the final shots."

 

"That's it?" Lestrade asked, glad that the man had decided to cut short the shoot.

 

"That's it, mate. Unless you want some more?"

 

"No! No, thank you," Lestrade smiled, heading for the chair his clothes were draped on and grabbing them.

 

As soon as he was half decent Donovan approached him. "Thanks, Sir. I know you didn't really want to do it…but honestly, you were one of the best."

 

Lestrade felt a slightly blush begin to warm his cheeks. "Very kind of you, Sergeant, but there's no need."

 

 

In the following week a spate of gang-related violence practically drove every thought of the photographs out of his mind. He had practically convinced himself that there would be twelve months worth of twenty-somethings, cavorting around with handcuffs and batons. After all, it was for charity, and they needed to sell as many as possible. He absolutely wouldn't feel at all jealous of them if he had been left out.

 

It was the Wednesday, when Lestrade arrived back from Baker Street, Sherlock and Watson in tow, that he realised he might have been wrong.

 

A strange silence descended over the office as he walked through the door – the sort of noisy silence that consists mainly of sharp whispers and loaded glances, as everyone makes sure everyone else is ready to witness what is about to occur.

 

Lestrade scanned the room and spotted the box, a large sign above it asking for a donation of ten pounds for each calendar. There was also an example of the calendar, hanging lopsidedly above the box. He was torn between looking and ignoring it. He wanted to think they were all worried about what he might do when he found out he'd failed to make the grade, but somehow, something told him that wasn't the case.

 

It was Sherlock, of course, who broke the spell. He strode into the room and grabbed the calendar, Watson on his heels, and then, before he had even turned a page, turned to look at Lestrade, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, and something else – something more calculating. It made Lestrade's gut tighten.

 

"Is that…" Watson stopped speaking and turned to look at Lestrade, mouth open.

 

Lestrade couldn't bear it any longer. He walked forward and took the calendar from Sherlock. The front cover was a black and white picture of him, leaning back on a police car, his head tipped back so his face was hidden, but his strong jaw line, lightly stubbled, was caught in the lights, throwing dark in the hollows of his neck. The lighting had been carefully set to pick out the muscles in his arms, where he was leaning back onto the car, one foot casually resting on the bumper. The police utility belt did just about cover his groin, but left little to the imagination, and the stab vest he'd had on was wide open, hanging from his shoulders and providing a dark backdrop to his pale skin. He supposed he didn't look too bad – the pose was at least flattering, and no one would recognise him from it, with his face hidden. He almost smiled.

 

"Mr November!" Donovan's distinctive voice shouted out, as she entered the office with a few other members of the team.

 

It took a moment for the name to sink in, and Lestrade slowly looked back down to the calendar. He flicked through the months, spotting Donovan herself as Miss April - her modesty seemingly preserved by some strands of police tape and little else - and then found November. Him again, and he looked, he thought, as if he was doing something decidedly un-policeman like.

 

The photographer had obviously caught him as he'd rubbed his face on his arm. His eyes were closed, mouth slightly open – as if he were panting or something equally unseemly. And his hand was half behind his belt, making it look, he realised, as if he were in the middle of…enjoying himself a bit too much. He swallowed. Damn the photographer – and DCI Higgs, and Donovan, and anyone else who was going to make his life a misery because of this.

 

A crisp ten-pound note slid across the picture, delicately held between Sherlock's long fingers.

 

"One, please," Sherlock said, face utterly emotionless.

 

"You...What?" Lestrade said, incredulously.

 

"It is for charity," Sherlock answered, deadpan, and removed the calendar from his grasp. "In more ways than one." He turned and handed it to Watson, looking pointedly at the bulge in the Doctor's trousers.

 

"I see it's a wipe-clean surface, as well," he observed loudly as he headed toward Lestrade's office.

 

Watson tore his gaze from the photograph of Lestrade looking utterly wanton and looked up at the man himself. He tried to form some words, but instead his cheeks just flushed red and he ducked his head before turning and following Sherlock.

 

 

It was a few weeks later that Lestrade found himself at Baker Street again – on another case. He fixed a smile on his face as Mrs Hudson opened the door, his mind entirely on a certain Doctor.

 

"Inspector!" she greeted. "Do go on up – Sherlock's popped out, I think, but the Doctor's upstairs, and I'm sure Sherlock won't be long."

 

"Thank you," he answered, and had his foot on the bottom step of the stairs when he noticed a familiar picture hanging in the hallway.

 

Mrs Hudson had obviously realised what he'd spotted. "Oh, yes, Inspector. Sherlock gave it to me as a gift! I mean, he had a whole box of them, you know? Such a sweet boy, doing his bit for charity."

 

Lestrade turned to look at her. "But it's December at the moment," he pointed out.

 

"Oh, Inspector," she laughed. "It's always November in this household!"

 

 

~Fin?

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little picture to go with the story.
> 
> ...I know I forgot the bulletproof vest. Oops.

[](http://smg.beta.photobucket.com/user/Elfbert/media/MrNovember.jpg.html)


End file.
